


The Lion's Den

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Car Sex, Multi, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have always been these rumors too, but Castiel had assumed they were along the same lines as the taunts of 'cocksucker' and 'fag', more the failing of creativity on the part of their harassers than a legitimate accusation. He never thought that they were actually <i>involved</i>, much less that he would ever be afforded the opportunity to see it for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion's Den

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still not sure how I feel about writing in Cas' voice, but the only way to improve is practice, right? Special thanks to akadougal for giving this a once over. Also, I could not come up with a title for this to save my life.

The wet gravel taste of the air coats Castiel's tongue, all the way down his throat and into his lungs until they should be rattling with it, oxygen knocking around like a rock tumbler. This is why it's a bad idea for him to drink - his mind operates strangely enough on its own.  
  
Just try telling Gabriel that, though. No, of course not, Castiel just needed to _cowboy the fuck up_ , just couldn't hold his liquor, just _had_ to come out to a party in the middle of God's green nowhere with a bunch of people from school who don't even know his name. After eighteen - almost nineteen - years on Earth, Castiel's come to accept the fact that he's always going to be his brothers' little brother, one of their names tacked onto his as if they are the most important part of who he is. That doesn't mean he actively enjoys having people he's been in school with since kindergarten refer to him as “Gabe's brother whatshisface”.  
  
Bitterness, yet another reason why his substance consumption should be kept to a minimum.  
  
The thump of bass-heavy music inside the house is muted from out here, the same song Castiel walked out on or maybe another that sounds the same, he can't tell.  
  
A couple dozen cars are parked around the barren swath of fallow grass he assumes passes for a lawn though it looks no different than the half mile of flat, tree-dotted land they passed on the bumpy lane leading up to the front door. Tire-stirred dust has settled onto every available surface, painting the shiny-slick reds and blacks and blues of little compact cars and second-hand trucks into a matte parody of semi-rural upper middle class.  
  
It's cool for spring, humid, rain-soaked air that feels vaguely sticky on Castiel's skin. He should have worn a jacket, his mother's always telling him to wear a jacket. But then Gabriel's always telling him not to be a pussy. He really can't wait until spring break is over and his brothers head back to school.  
  
A dull, bruise-ready pain takes him out at the knee as he stumbles over a loose stone or maybe his own two feet - at this point he can't be certain - into a bumper. He'd only had two cups of something that tasted like juice and children's cough syrup but was obviously a lot stronger. It's as though he can feel the rotation of the planet, its axial tilt and that's honestly not doing much to keep the sugary concoction roiling in his stomach where he put it.  
  
“Hey! No puking on the car!” is snarled too close to Castiel's ear, a veil of grit pasted to his palm even as he's removed bodily from the hood he'd stumbled against.  
  
Of course it's Dean Wichester. Of all the cars to fall on, Castiel _would_ have to become intimate with that of the most famously anal retentive car guy in three counties. Wonderful.  
  
“Dean!” The voice behind him is sharper, slightly higher, and most importantly, familiar.  
  
Sam isn't exactly what Castiel would consider a friend - no one actually leaps to mind who would fit that description - but they're familiar. Castiel has library aide third period on A days and Sam generally spends his lunch hour there, nose-deep in the pages of whatever's captured his interest this week. They talk sometimes, casually, almost like what could be called hanging out.  
  
Maybe it's just their family situations - disappointing, overbearing fathers and attention grabbing brothers - or maybe it's that Sam, a year younger and at least that much smarter again than everyone else in his grade, doesn't really fit in either, but whatever the reason, Castiel's always felt a certain kinship with him.  
  
More so, undeniably, when Sam's hand closes around Dean's wrist. It disentangles from Castiel's shirt immediately, giving him room to ease down off of his tip-toes.  
  
Dean grumbles something inaudible but backs off enough for Sam to eyeball Castiel up and down. “You alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbles, distracted for a moment by the heat of Sam's palm on his jaw, angling his head to make him look into searching hazel eyes. Then again, more firmly, “Yes.”  
  
Sam's eyes narrow knowingly. “You drank the Koolaid didn't you.”  
  
“I don't think that it was Koolaid.”  
  
Dean laughs, drawing Castiel's attention to where he's brushing dust off the hood of the car with the sleeve of his battered leather jacket. “Your brother oughta take better care of you.”  
  
An embarrassingly eager part of him flushes with excitement that Dean actually knows who he is, even if only by virtue of his family, but he crushes it expediently.  
  
“I don't need to be coddled.”  
  
“Of course not.” Dean smirks indulgently.  
  
The spot where Sam's hand rested is shockingly cold as he pulls away. “Maybe we should get you home.”  
  
Perversely, Castiel says, “I'm not ready to leave yet,” although he'd come outside specifically in the hope of finding someone to give him a ride. As strange as everyone else seems to think he is, Castiel can't pretend he's any less of a mystery to himself.  
  
“Cas,” Sam says, alarmingly like Castiel's mother, if his mother - if anyone - were to refer to him by a nickname.  
  
“I can handle myself, Sam.” It flies free from his throat as a snap, a hard, vicious thing that Sam doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of. It isn't Sam's fault that Castiel's idiot brother brought him out here and abandoned him in the lion's den in favor of hooking up with barely legal cheerleaders. But he's having a hard time thinking straight just now and having Sam and Dean standing on either side of him, close enough to feel the weight of their attention, isn't helping him focus.  
  
“Spunky,” Dean smiles and Castiel's brain becomes a void inside of his skull, “I like it.”  
  
He saunters a semi-circle around the spot where Castiel's feet have rooted themselves. Something in the look he gives Sam makes it seem more like prowling. He comes to a stop beside his brother, both of them shifting in that automatic way Castiel's always wondered if they're aware of, playing to one another as naturally as breathing.  
  
“Tell you what. How about if we just go for a drive, huh? Don't have to go home, just give you a little time to sober up. Have some fun on our own.”  
  
There's danger in the slant of Dean's mouth, the curl of his raw silk voice. A beautiful danger like a siren's song and if Castiel is thinking up Homeric metaphors then he's clearly in no condition for any more 'fun'. But then Dean slings an arm around Sam's neck, reels him in and hooks his chin over Sam's shoulder. Nothing genuinely suggestive about it and yet warmth nestles fitfully under Castiel's skin - rumor-mongering and his own wishful thinking a potent aphrodisiac.  
  
The Winchesters have always been unusual, the wrong side of the tracks, the wrong sort of upbringing. Insular and prone to fights, dirt poor with a very limited concept of appropriate degrees of physical affection; they are ideal fodder for the kind of public school psychological warfare that would send most adolescents into nervous breakdowns. They also have the one thing necessary to succeeding where others would fail - they seem to genuinely not give a damn.  
  
It's bound to help that practically everyone is afraid of them to one degree or another. Both of them have proven on more than one occasion that they know how to throw a punch and they're practically never apart outside of school. Add that to some of the more outrageous accounts of their misadventures - people still whisper that one of the times they were removed by Child Protective Services they were put in separate foster homes and Dean supposedly broke into the house Sam was placed with to get him back; in some versions they even say he stabbed the foster father to death, but Castiel considers that unlikely for any number of reasons - and the fact that Dean deals to half the under-30 population in the county, law enforcement included, and the Winchesters essentially have carte blanche.  
  
None of which makes it seem like a particularly good idea to go off somewhere alone with them.  
  
“What?” Dean's lips are plumped in a mock pout that doesn't touch the gleam in his eyes. “You don't wanna play with us?”  
  
His hand splays flat over Sam's chest, fingers shuffing against cotton with small motions that wrinkle the worn-soft fabric, pulling it tight here and there enough to highlight a dip of muscle or the peak of a cold nipple.  
  
“That wasn't what I meant,” Castiel hears himself saying, desperation coating it like shellac. He winces at his own fervor but Dean is grinning, “Good,” as if that settles everything.  
  
Which, apparently, it does as he only gets about half of, “Wait, my brother,” out before Sam's tugging him toward the car. The next thing he knows he's jammed into the front seat of Dean Winchester's car - _The Impala_ \- between the man himself and Sam and a gear shift that's getting unnecessarily fresh with him.  
  
There's no room to speak of as Dean cranks the engine and peels out, gravel ticking against the undercarriage as they head further along the poorly tended dirt road until the house behind them is swallowed up by distance and trees.  
  
How Sam manages to fit into the passenger seat at all is a bit of a mystery now that Castiel can see the way his knees are pushed right up against the glove box, legs splayed open to take advantage of every available scrap of space. It doesn't leave anywhere for his own legs to be so he tries, as unobtrusively as possible, to fit one into Sam's footwell and the other into Dean's around the hump in the center of the floor. It's probably not particularly subtle as it leaves him thigh to thigh with both of them, a matched set to their arms brushing his with the slight rock of the car. Shoulders are not meant to be as broad as the Winchesters', he's certain.  
  
Heat brushes against the inside of his leg as Dean shifts gears, zings up into his groin and sets up camp there even though Dean's hand is already back on the wheel. It's becoming readily apparent that Castiel should have ridden in the back seat.  
  
He is not entirely oblivious to his own proclivities. He has four brothers, after all, at least two of whom are given to any vice they can get their hands on in a show of defiance and another two that are just as Bible-bound and bigoted as they think their father wants them to be. He is more than familiar with the idea of homosexuality. He also went to school with Dean, making it impossible to avoid the casual swagger and charm that Dean gives off like some alien form of bioluminescence. Then of course there's Sam who he's certainly entertained more than a few thoughts about with regards to the impure uses of various library surfaces. Suffice to say, he is likewise more than familiar with Winchester proximity and that flushed heat building between his thighs. He'd just prefer it if Dean and Sam weren't briefed on the particulars.  
  
Sam twists around from checking the gaping black maw of the rear window to give a nod. Dean eases against the seat like he was poured there.  
  
Letting off the gas a little downgrades the rumble of the engine to a purr, makes the irregular bumps in the ground below them a bit easier to bear. Scarred leather crinkles when Dean slings an arm across the back of the benchseat, a cool whisper laced with the scent of smoke and grease against the back of Castiel's neck and a thick-knuckled hand resting on Sam's near shoulder.  
  
“Where are we going?” Castiel asks, admirably steady considering he spent the better part of his freshman year fantasizing about Dean Winchester putting an arm around him.  
  
“Gotta stick to the back roads,” says Dean, creeping around a bend that curves on further into more trees and nothingness. Castiel didn't even realize the woods were this dense out here. “Spring break. Cops'll be on the lookout for anybody underage.”  
  
“You're not,” pops out of his mouth unbidden. Luckily, it may well be dark enough that the blush he can feel rising on his neck won't be obvious.  
  
Dean quirks an eyebrow at him in the rearview mirror almost like a challenge. “What?”  
  
“Underage,” Castiel mumbles. Dean's age isn't a secret, but he has a feeling that keeping up with the fact that Dean turned 21 in January - January 24th, to be precise - might be the sort of thing that other people find unsettling.  
  
All it does, though, is make Dean smirk again. “Nope. But last I checked you two still are.”  
  
“Not to mention the drinking and driving,” Sam adds pointedly, head relaxed against the window, hair falling into his eyes. Castiel's never seen him like this, loose and comfortable, a lot more like the sort of person who could pass for Dean's younger brother than he ever comes across as at school. He wonders if Sam's drunk or if this is the way he always acts when it's just him and Dean. Just him and Dean _and Castiel_ , technically.  
  
The warm simmer in his belly at that thought isn't anything Castiel's proud of, even without his brothers here to harass him about it.  
  
Dean blows out air, preening and smug when he says, “Please, I've got this. Bitch.”  
  
Sam fires back, “Jerk,” almost reflexively.  
  
Against the back of his neck, Dean's arm tenses, slides, the road wobbling slightly in the beam of the headlight as the car swerves with Dean' reach to flick at Sam's ear. The light punch that Sam aims at Dean's opposite shoulder, craning around in front of Castiel and pressing up against his side, doesn't help matters, small stones crunching as rubber grinds them unsteadily into the dirt. He doesn't realize his arms have shot out to brace himself for impact until Sam and Dean both freeze and he feels the flex of hard muscle under his hands. His hands which have somehow found their way to Dean and Sam's legs respectively.  
  
Just as quickly as he grabbed hold, Castiel lets go, flattening his palms to his own thighs for safe keeping. Dean barely looks up to guide them into the center of the trail again, their pace seeming infinitely slower now that Castiel knows someone is paying attention to not driving them off the road. If Gabriel was here, he would be calling Castiel 'Cassandra' about now.  
  
He startles when Sam's hand settles on top of his own, warm and unfairly large considering he's almost two years Castiel's junior. “Sorry," he says with big, genuine eyes. Ticklishly, his thumb circles against Castiel's knuckle, tiny motions turning the inside of Castiel's throat to glue that snags his next exhale. "We get a little... rambunctious sometimes.”  
  
“Chill, Thesaurus," Dean huffs good-naturedley, another shock in the form of his fingers ruffling Castiel's hair, "He's got like a zillion brothers, he can handle it.”  
  
Castiel's mumbled, “It's four,” might well be too quiet to be heard, too overstimulated by alcohol and the sudden influx of contact to bother turning it sharp.  
  
His family isn't exceptionally physical, obviously nothing like the Winchesters, so he's hardly to blame for being disconcerted by these kinds of uncalculated displays of affection. It is, nonetheless, kind of embarrassing to get himself worked up over what is clearly, to them, a natural and guileless reaction.  
  
Castiel's body presses into Dean's side as they take another slow turn, pulling off of the worn down road onto a path barely visible through the tall switch grasses. He's not particularly familiar with the area this far out of town, but this seems less like the back roads Dean promised and more like the wilderness. In particular when the Impala crawls to a stop.  
  
"Do you need to call Gabe?" Sam asks thoughtfully as the headlights shut down, plunging them into cobalt darkness.  
  
His, “I doubt he'll even notice,” is more sullen than he intended. It's also precisely the sort of thing that one probably shouldn't say to two individuals of questionable intent when trapped with them in the middle of the woods. He is rapidly becoming aware that his decision making abilities are not at their peak when it comes to Sam and Dean.  
  
Castiel's first inclination when Dean draws a shiny metal flask out of his jacket is some partially formed warning about the hereditary nature of addictive personalities but he thinks better of it. John Winchester isn't technically the town drunk, mainly by virtue of the fact that most people are too polite to say so. For the most part, Castiel would just like to avoid making Sam and Dean call him lame. It isn't the sort of thing he would usually care about, but right now he's beginning to understand the concept of peer pressure.  
  
Dean's lips wrap around the little metal spout, taking a healthy swig before passing it to Sam who doesn't bother to wipe it off before taking a drink of his own. Stomach clenching dizzyingly, Castiel's left staring stupidly at the shine on Sam's bottom lip until it curves up and he realizes Sam's proffering the flask to him too.  
  
Only a little shaky, Castiel takes it, brings it up to his mouth entirely too aware of where it's been, that the dampness that cools his lips on the first touch isn't liquor. The alcohol - he has no idea what kind, probably wouldn't know the difference if they told him - sinks its teeth into his throat the moment he swallows. He tries to stifle the small cough the wracks his chest but must not do a very good job of it because Sam is patting him on the back while Dean smirks, “Lightweight?”  
  
Knee-jerk, Castiel answers, “No,” although raspy and choked as it is, it sounds more like a yes. It makes Dean smile brighter, tip the flask back up to Castiel's lips with the push of a finger until his mouth floods with liquid heat again.  
  
Sam says, “Dean,” in what might be a warning tone but doesn't quite sound that way.  
  
The second gulp goes down easier than the first, a burn that melts out through his chest and down into his bones. When he lowers the flask the two of them are sharing look and there's something about it that sucks the air out of the car like a vacuum.  
  
“Wha-“ he starts and can't get any more out around the wet shape of Dean's tongue in his mouth.  
  
The first thing Castiel thinks is, _oh, this is what it feels like_. Dean's mouth is smooth and insinuating, intrusive, against his, tongue curling at the insides of his cheeks and licking so far into the back of his mouth Castiel's sure Dean must be able to taste the eager thud where his heart is cradled right there at the top of his throat. He mashes together a compilation of everything he's ever seen or read or had described to him to try and do it properly, more than likely fails, but Dean just holds him still and does what he feels like, so it's just as well.  
  
Oxygen floods his lungs like ice water when Dean pulls back. He flails in the absence, adrift until a firm hand presses to his chest and Sam's voice in his ear orders him to breathe, just breathe.  
  
“You ok?” Sam asks after a minute, still close enough that his nose brushes against Castiel's temple when he nods his assent. There's a finger, or maybe a thumb, pressing to the slack of his lips, toying, and he can't guess which one of them is doing it because he can't remember how to open his eyes.  
  
“Is this a problem?” It's Dean this time, lips dragging damp over his cheek. His own catch at Sam's - must be Sam's - when he works up some spit to swallow and shakes his head, all capacity for speech lost somewhere in the space between their mouths.  
  
Sam kisses differently than Dean, coaxing where Dean demanded. It's a syrup-slow crawl of lust in little nibbles with only the faintest edge of teeth until Castiel finds himself licking at Sam's mouth, needing to get in. Sam opens to it easily, lips pulled into a smile Castiel can feel the tilt of. More intoxicating than anything he's had poured up for him tonight, Sam sucks at his tongue, slick promise and heat that has Castiel's hands trembling when he tentatively touches them to Sam's chest.  
  
“That's it," Dean purrs, the same deep reverberation as his car, "get your hands on him. He wants you to touch him. Don't you, Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam's lips cling wetly to Castiel's. “Cas, please.”  
  
This must be what it feels like to be insane, no idea what's happening or why, let alone what to do about it. Butterfly-restless, his mind flits from one idea to the next without pausing long enough for anything to take hold; the way Sam feels under his hands, lean muscle lashed to bone beneath a skin-soft layer of cotton, the rush of cool air as Sam gasps against his mouth when Castiel's finger accidentally scrapes over a nipple, the moan he gets instead when he tries it again on purpose. It would be enough to focus on all by itself without Sam teasing at his mouth, goading him into what has to be a sloppy mess of a kiss and making all sorts of happy noise about it. Without Dean's hands trailing over his stomach to slip underneath his shirt.  
  
Self-consciousness tidal waves over him, locking up his joints. He doesn't have one of those cornfed jock bodies like Dean or the lean skater build that Sam hides under his brother's borrowed clothes. He's slim but soft, nothing he's ashamed of most of the time, but most of the time he doesn't have Dean and Sam right there touching him, comparing. He's not hot and he doesn't know how to kiss, he's an eighteen year old virgin who's never even been touched by anyone else before and he must be such a disappointment.  
  
“Don't stop,” Sam breathes hotly across Castiel's tongue. Before he knows what's happening, one of Sam's legs is slung across his lap so that Sam is stuck somewhere between straddling him and laying on him, hip to hard-on on both sides. That alone, Sam Winchester turned on because of him, pressing against him, could make Castiel come; might very well if Sam's mouth didn't unexpectedly part from his on a soft pop.  
  
Eyes finally crawling open he finds Sam's neck bared to his, arched slightly back with Dean's fingers twisted up in his hair.  
  
Dean's lips inch along the tight curve of Sam's throat, leaving a slivery, moonlight trail in the wake of his tongue. “Know what I want?" he says against Sam's jaw, enough heat in it to melt steel, "I want your mouth.”  
  
Sam groans like it's the best thing he's ever heard, melting into the footwell before Castiel understands what they're talking about. Then he has to stop moving to give his heart a chance to catch up on the beats it skipped.  
  
By the time it has, Sam's already wedged his way between Dean's - his _brother_ , Dean's - legs, pawing at the jeans Dean's already peeling open, strip-tease slow.  
  
There have always been these rumors too, but Castiel had assumed they were along the same lines as the taunts of 'cocksucker' and 'fag', more the failing of creativity on the part of their harassers than a legitimate accusation. He never thought that they were actually _involved_ , much less that he would ever be afforded the opportunity to see it for himself.  
  
Dean is still partially soft when Sam drags the waistband of his boxers down below the swell of his balls, lets the elastic push them back up against him, tight and fat, ready. He paints soft-looking kisses over the swell of them as Dean thickens up with twitches and small broken off sounds. Seemingly satisfied with his work, Sam lifts his head and tongues along the underside of Dean's shaft.  
  
There's barely enough light enough for Castiel to see what's happening in any detail. He can make out the glitter of Sam's eyes, though, how they flip between him and Dean, smugly delighted as he opens his mouth and allows the head of Dean's cock to rest daintily on the flat of his tongue like a prize on display. Then his lips are closing, cheeks gone dark as they hollow and this time it's Dean grabbing Castiel's thigh, grip hard enough to hurt.  
  
Castiel can't imagine what a mouth might feel like on him like that, but wet and warm both seem like safe assumptions. Good seems justifiable to tack on from the way Dean's head rolls back against the seat, eyes shut and mouth open on breathy pleasure sounds. They're hard to hear over the noises Sam makes, muffled moans and slurps that make Castiel blush and flush at the same time, gone hot inside his own skin.  
  
Thick fingers thread through Sam's hair, pushing it off of his face and using it as a handhold - evidently that's a thing for them and Castiel's trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that they've done this enough to have 'things' or he risks coming in his pants - to angle him a little more so that the blunt shape of the head is outlined through his cheek as he bobs up and down on it.  
  
Castiel has no intention of touching until he realizes his hand is halfway to Sam's face. A distance that closes with a grunt and nod from Dean and a flutter of Sam's lashes over the hot challenge in his eyes. The feel of it reminds him ridiculously of a lollipop with the exception that he can't ever remember wanting to lick the hard curve of a sucker through someone else's cheek. He settles for thumbing over it because if he bends he's afraid the friction alone will be enough for him, the push of it rubbing at him through Sam's cheek like an affection starved cat with every shallow thrust of Dean's hips.  
  
Dean's “Not yet, not yet,” has no breath behind it, but he's holding Sam off by the hair again so it doesn't come across as a request. There's an audible click from his throat when he swallows, only audible for the quarter second before Sam gets bored and starts going down on Castiel's thumb instead, jolting a startled sound out of him.  
  
“Him first.” Dean's voice is husky, deeper than Castiel's ever heard it before and that is saying something. He nudges Sam in Castiel's general direction with his knuckles, one skimming the swell of Sam's lips where they're stretched around Castiel's thumb.  
  
“Pushy,” Sam gripes, slurring the digit out of his mouth as he does; nowhere close to matching the eager way he goes at Castiel's fly. His own hands get batted away when he attempts to get in on it, not sure if he means to help or stop Sam but ineffectual either way.  
  
Sinking further into the seat, Dean tips his head to Castiel's shoulder, prickly-soft hair raising goosebumps on Castiel's neck. “It was your plan.”  
  
Sam huffs, “Shut up. Didn't hear you complaining," pawing at the band of Castiel's briefs until he figures out what's happening and lifts up enough for Sam to shuck them down to mid-thigh.  
  
Dean grins, “Hell no,” almost on top of Sam's, “Fuck.”  
  
His breath is like an electric current against the thin skin of Castiel's upper thigh, his freed erection jerking hard enough at the sensation that he can feel the pull in his stomach. Sam catches him easily, long fingers curled tempting and lewd around the base while his eyes lock with laser-focus on the head.  
  
Dean sounds just as entranced when he says, “Shit that's hot.” He reaches down to tangle his fingers with Sam's as Sam strokes down, revealing the slick, dark tip of Castiel's dick below the foreskin. Leaning in slowly, Sam tongues a kiss to the tip, wet and soft and so overwhelming Castiel can't hold back a hiss as his hips buck, trying to get away and get more at the same time.  
  
"How does it feel?" Sam asks, intense and intent in the way he gets when they discuss homework, hungry for empirical data to quantify the situation.  
  
"I- I don't, it just." Castiel doubts that even with his faculties fully operational and Sam and Dean on the opposite side of a nice sterile room he'd be able to explain the difference being uncircumcised makes since he's obviously never been any other way. Certainly having Sam's tongue skirting around the border of his foreskin and dipping carefully below isn't improving his eloquence in the slightest.  
  
Doesn't matter anyway because Dean shushes him then, kissing distractedly at his jaw. Never quite turning into it, as though he might still be watching Sam play with Castiel like his favorite new toy. It's actually rather perversely flattering, he's just not entirely convinced he'll be able to survive much more of it.  
  
Sam's tongue flickers like a candle flame around the curve of the crown, hand drawing down excruciatingly slow and then stroking up again, his blood-swollen cockhead popping free over and over again only to be swallowed up once more by his own flesh. Daintily, Sam paints his lips shining against the slit, pushes the tip of his tongue inside like a tiny, hot cork and punches a rough noise straight up from Castiel's spleen. His hands scrabble for something, anything, to keep him grounded and he finds himself with one gripping Sam's wrist hard enough to feel all of the fine bones, and the other at Dean's knee, pulling at the loosened bunch of fabric.  
  
It takes far more effort than it should to turn his head when Dean hooks a finger to his chin and urges it, his entire spine bracing when Sam follows the foreskin with his mouth on the next downstroke. Sucking heat envelops his world in a tight, slippery embrace, practically no other sensory information getting to Castiel's brain. For all he knows, he just went blind.  
  
He hopes to God it isn't true when Dean murmurs, "Kiss me, it'll make it better," because that just might kill him. There shouldn't be any such thing as better than this, it can't even be physically possible. There is a limitation to how much input a given set of nerve endings can tolerate.  
  
Dean, however, doesn't seem inclined to care about that since he doesn't wait for Castiel to agree before nudging roughly at his mouth with those plump, plump lips. The savageness is actually good, a funnel to unload the frenzied energy vibrating out from his marrow. Unskilled and uncaring, he bites at Dean's lips, licks over them again and again with a hand tangled up in Dean's shirt keeping him close. Better than letting him, Dean gives it all back full force, holding onto Castiel by the back of his head and fucking fiercely with his tongue, a needless reminder of Sam painting swirls around and around Castiel's cockhead with his tongue.  
  
Steadily he's taking Castiel deeper, not as much as he did with with Dean, not yet at least, but still enough that Castiel learns the feeling of the washboard roof of his mouth as he slides in, the soft pull of his cheeks and tongue working in conjunction, the almost-not quite pain when he bumps the back of Sam's throat and the muscle flirts at giving way for him.  
  
Without warning it suddenly does, tight clutching heat enveloping him all the way to the base, Sam's face buried against his body so that the tiny trickles of oxygen he draws in and releases flash like Rorschach burn patterns across Castiel's skin. He can't say with any reasonable level of certainty what happens after that, too wrapped up in the red-hot coil at the base of his spine shattering like glass and the sparking splinters of it bristling in his veins.  
  
When he manages to drag his eyes open again the lashes are wet, hopefully from the force he'd clamped them shut with and not because he did something embarrassing like crying over the sweet, shocky friction of Sam swallowing around him. His stomach muscles are still jumping to a tempo entirely out of his control, the kiss of air cool where his shirt is pushed up and the spit on his dick is drying.  
  
None of which registers much over the immediately essential fact of Sam straddling Dean in the driver's seat. His jeans cling loosely around him, the tantalizing curve of his ass just barely exposed where Dean is roughly groping it with one hand, firm muscle mounded between his fingers. The other hand is busy between them, both of their cocks trapped in a fist that doesn't come close to reaching the whole way around their girth as he jacks them both furiously. Any of it should be enough to have Castiel staring in awe and yet what he gets stuck on, stomach barrel-rolling across his torso, is the shape of their mouths fused together in bluish dark.  
  
It's far from the most intimate thing he's seen them do together tonight. It shouldn't even, in all fairness, be a revelation. If Sam gives Dean head, then they almost certainly kiss, that's just logic. And yet, it seems so very different, so much more in some way. As if he's staring into a couple's bedroom window, peeping on something private, an intimacy that is so far beyond their bodies. A devotional, a worship.  
  
His heart bottoms out on the rough skid of his rib cage when Dean growls, "I want you in me," around Sam's tongue, the one that just moments ago was rasping satin-soft at Castiel's dick, most likely still tastes of his come. Sam's breathing stutters to a halt in a long instant of hang-time and then explodes free again straight into Dean's mouth, a perverse parody of CPR. He can just make out the pulse and shine of it as Sam makes a mess in the shadowy valley between their bodies.  
  
Dean holds onto Sam by the hair again, less like a handhold this time than a reflex, the other still busy between them as Sam shivers and shakes in his lap. It only takes another few strokes for Dean to join him, smearing a loud, shameless groan against his brother's cheek.  
  
They pull away like they have to force themselves to do it, like all they really want is to keep right on going toward morning. Their breathing is still heavy when they do, still shared in the little sliver of space between them with their foreheads pressed together.  
  
Almost as one, their eyes slide toward him, a conspicuous and intrusive sensation flowing heavy in the rush of blood that heats Castiel's cheeks. Two bright, menacing leers shine back at him.  
  
“Dude,” Dean says lazily, sounding more drunk now than he has all night, “We have _got_ to do that again.”  
  
“With a bed,” agrees Sam.  
  
“You ever been fucked, Cas?” Dean asks, promising and cocksure.  
  
The immediate and obvious answer is 'no', which he imagines was plenty obvious in his complete lack of anything approaching stamina or technique, but he can't manage to get his mouth to do anything but hang at the bottom of his face unhelpfully while his brain misfires.  
  
It must be enough of an answer because Sam smirks, “Told you,” at Dean. He leans back against the steering wheel with his arms crossed over his chest, moonlight glossing the sweat on his face where his hair sticks in clumps, the wicked slice of his upturned mouth. Every inch the cat who got the cream.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean sighs, long-suffering, “you're the plan master. Congratulations. I'm losing feeling in my legs.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes in response but starts clambering off of Dean anyway. Along the way he pauses for a moment to bring one of Dean's fingers up to his mouth, sucking it in down to the webbing and then pulling off with a pop. It doesn't register with Castiel what the point of that was - aside from Sam, evidently, being a merciless tease - until he has an unexpected lapful of the youngest Winchester and an even more unexpected mouthful of Sam's tongue, coated slick and bitter. He barely has a chance to understand what he's tasting before Sam's pulling back, scraping his tastebuds clean on Castiel's teeth and punctuating it with a few smaller, closed-mouth pecks.  
  
His lips feel hotter and thicker than they did before, though Castiel can't say for sure that's not just his own imagination. Regardless, Sam hums against him, a deep, pleased noise before finally sliding back over into the passenger seat, hitching up his jeans along the way.  
  
That's the moment it occurs to Castiel that he's still sitting here naked in the ways that matter most, his penis laying sticky and not entirely soft in the crook of his thigh. Sam watches unabashedly as Castiel tucks himself back in.  
  
There's a strange quality to every motion and sensation that Castiel realizes belatedly is a mixture of lingering alcohol and his own anticipation of waking up any second. But instead of jolting back to consciousness in his own bed with an uncomfortable mess in his underwear, Dean is cranking the keys in the ignition and the car is roaring back to life, the shine of the headlights stark through the fogged windows.  
  
Carefully Dean eases back out onto the road that brought them here, arm crooked over the back of the seat again is a way that suddenly feels possessive. No more so than the heat of Sam's hand bleeding through his pants, higher up on his thigh than can strictly be considered casual. That same giddy, fearful rush swamps Castiel again, every draw of sex-laden air making it worse instead of better. At this rate, he's afraid he's going to get hard again before they make it back to his house. Assuming they're taking him back to his house. They could just drop him off back at the party - Gabriel probably hasn't left yet.  
  
"Relax, man," Dean says, flexing his arm against Castiel's shoulder in something approximating a hug, "Last thing I need around here is another overthinker."  
  
Sam huffs. "Contrary to popular belief, thinking is a good thing." This time, rather than leaning his head against the window he makes a place for himself against the curve of Castiel's neck, the sound of Dean's fingers running absently through his hair loud in Castiel's ear.  
  
"Depends on what you're thinkin' about."  
  
Sam hums his agreement, apparently more interested in observing the effects of rubbing his lips gently against Castiel's throat on Casitel's blood pressure. He honestly has no clue what's going on, but he's starting to think he likes it. And is at significantly increased risk of a heart attack if he spends much more time with the Winchesters.  
  
"And right now, what I'm thinkin' is," Dean continues, whispering disconcertingly close to the ear Sam is not currently nosing at, "What're you doing tomorrow night?"


End file.
